Still at the last, to his beloved bowl
He clung, and cheer’d the sadness of his soul;
For though a man may not have much to fear,
Yet death looks ugly when the view is near: 
- ‘I go,’ he said, ’but still my friends shall say,
’Twas as a man—­I did not sneak away;
An honest life with worthy souls I’ve spent, —
Come, fill my glass;’ he took it and he went. 
   “Poor Dolly Murray!—­I might live to see
My hundredth year, but no such lass as she. 
Easy by nature, in her humour gay,
She chose her comforts, ratafia and play: 
She loved the social game, the decent glass,
And was a jovial, friendly, laughing lass;
We sat not then at Whist demure and still,
But pass’d the pleasant hours at gay Quadrille: 
Lame in her side, we plac’d her in her seat,
Her hands were free, she cared not for her feet;
As the game ended, came the glass around
(So was the loser cheer’d, the winner crown’d). 
Mistress of secrets, both the young and old
In her confided—­not a tale she told;
Love never made impression on her mind,
She held him weak, and all his captives blind;
She suffer’d no man her free soul to vex,
Free from the weakness of her gentle sex;
One with whom ours unmoved conversing sate,
In cool discussion or in free debate. 
   “Once in her chair we’d placed the good old lass,
Where first she took her preparation-glass;
By lucky thought she’d been that day at prayers,
And long before had fix’d her small affairs,
So all was easy—­on her cards she cast
A smiling look; I saw the thought that pass’d: 
‘A king,’ she call’d—­though conscious of her skill. 
‘Do more,’ I answer’d—­’More,’ she said, ‘I will;’
And more she did—­cards answer’d to her call,
She saw the mighty to her mightier fall: 
‘A vole! a vole!’ she cried, ’’tis fairly won,
My game is ended and my work is done;’ —
This said, she gently, with a single sigh,
Died as one taught and practised how to die. 
   “Such were the dead-departed; I survive,
To breathe in pain among the dead-alive.” 
The bell then call’d these ancient men to pray,
“Again!” said Benbow,—­“tolls it every day? 
Where is the life I led?”—­He sigh’d and walk’d his way. {7}

LETTER XVII.

Blessed is he that considereth the poor:  the Lord will deliver
him in time of trouble. 
          
                                        Psalm xli, 1.

Quas dederis, solas semper habebis opes. 
                                 Martial.

Nil negat, et sese vel non poscentibus offert. 
                                      CLAUDIAN.

Decipias alios verbis voltuque benigno;
Nam mihi jam notus dissimulator eris. 
                                Martial.

-----------------------

The hospital and governors.